


Correspondence

by FollowTheRainbows



Series: Writings of a Hero [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Stucky - Fandom
Genre: Letters, M/M, WWII
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:56:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FollowTheRainbows/pseuds/FollowTheRainbows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of letters written to Steve Rogers from his best friend Bucky, fighting in WWII. These personal letters tell the story of the horrors a brave young man faces in Europe during one of the most dangerous wars in history. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes is young and scared and stuck in a war he realizes he doesn't actually want to be fighting. As he struggles to find what's right in a country of hellish wrongs, he tries to find his way back to his best friend Steve, who he holds above all others. A story of two boys who grow up to fast and learn too quickly the unfairness of the world and that love can be the only thing that lasts. Signed from a broken boy in war to his best friend who is going through changes the other wouldn't believe, with a love no one understands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. March 23, 1942

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to make these as realistic possible, trying to tie in both the actual horrors and things people would experience while fighting WWII and then the actual canonical events from MCU. If you don't know, this is going to be a Stucky fanfic, so there will be, a little later in the story, some M/M love confessions. All of the letters are from Bucky to Steve because I feel like it will create a better story line if we only see Bucky's side of the story and responses to what Steve does and says.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

March 23, 1942.

Dear Steve,

Well, I’m here. I was actually beginning to think we weren’t going to make it, that they were actually just driving us around in circles until one of us killed all the others and they would just take that one guy and only he could join the army. Turns out that wasn’t their plan, but there were plenty of times when all of us guys nearly killed one another.  
Now that we’re here, it seems none of us actually know what to do. Even the tough ones, the ones that seemed to be born to be thrown into the war, hide themselves away from the other guys. It’s quite clear which type of guy everyone here is.

Back home there were all different kinds of guys, from lovers to fighters and barbers to doctors and every other kind of guy in between. Here, there’s only three. 

The Ancients; these are the guys who actually know what they’re doing and have been in a war before. They all tend to be big and mean looking, with crazy tattoos and even crazier scars, but they actually know what they’re talking about and think things through before running in with their dicks out instead of their guns.

The Scarecrows; the guys who have been here from anywhere to a few months to a few years. Most have only seen a handful of battles, and they’re the ones lucky enough to survive, even though most almost got their nuts shot off. No one really seems to like them, not even themselves. They all have big mouths and tiny brains. This big guy, an Ancient, named Lee Toldom, told me that they’re called Scarecrows because “they’re all puffed out and are made to look scary, but can’t actually do shit and have straw for brains.” 

Finally, there’s the Babies. That would be us new guys. Like I said, a lot of us stick to ourselves, but I try to be as friendly with everyone as possible. The Scarecrows aren’t too bad as long as you’re not gambling or talking about war. They spend more time talking about girls back home than anything else. The Ancients, although really intimidating, have all been great men and have taught me a lot. Something tells me you would get along well with them. 

Thus far, we haven’t actually seen much action. Any action, really. We mostly run a lot of drills, eat a lot of food, and shoot a lot of bull. War hasn’t really been what I expected, but not because I expected to be going face to face with Hitler. All the guys tell me it’s like this at first.

“Oh, you’ll get over it soon, Barnes. You just got to get your mind off whatever girl you left behind. Keep a picture in your hat and keep moving.” When I tell them I don’t have a girl back home, they all slap me on the back and tell me I just need to get laid when we pass through the nurse camps. But I don’t care too much for laying right now.

Truth is, Steve, I never pictured being at war without you being by my side. That’s the only reason I can think that everything feels so weird. I miss you, buddy. I put that little picture of the two of us, the one from when we graduated, in my hat. Hopefully I’ll feel a little better soon.

Try to write back soon because there’s not much else for me to do besides write to you or think about what I’m gonna write to you. It’s real busy over here in Europe, as you can see. Tell that bully Dick Clark he can go fuck himself for me when he tries to give you crap, okay?

Yours,  
Bucky.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tells Steve about the first real mission he and his team is sent on and how everything reminds him of how much he misses Steve. Featuring a letter from one of Bucky's bunk mates, Freddie.

March 29, 1942.

Dear Steve,

I appreciate the picture from Emmy Dents that you got her to send me, but you didn’t actually think I needed a picture of a girl to put in my hat, did you? Of course you did.

I wish I could say that not much has changed since I last wrote - has it really only been six days? - but I would be lying if I said that. Things seem to always be changing here. For starters, we lost a man. The first man I've ever known to be killed. Not just _die_ , but to be _killed_. His name was Quentin Carlyle. When they told me that name, all I would think was  _Wow. He must have been a movie star._

But he wasn't. Quentin Carlyle was just a regular guy who happened to have the shitty luck of being at the front of the line when they marched up to some German S.S. soldiers. I once at dinner next to Quentin Carlyle and he let me borrow his silver spoon for my soup after he was finished. Real silver! In a war! It was almost hysterical. I could see my reflection in it. Two days after he gave me that silver spoon, he was shot and killed in this wasteland of a country. I still have that fucking spoon.

If you don't mind, Steve, I'm going to mail it to you in one of the next few days. I don't want Quentin Carlyle's silver spoon. I'm going to try and get his sister's address from one of my commanders, so could you maybe mail it to her with a letter? You were always better at writing letters than I was.

Don't get worried, though. By the time my part of the regiment made it to the fight, there were only a few Germans left and they were surrendering. I didn't even have to take my gun out of the holster. It was strange to see these guys. There couldn't have been more than a dozen of them, and it was obvious they were the very end of their regiment and had been left behind to fight while the others tried to get away. When we checked their guns, we found that not a single one of them fired a bullet.

All of the more experienced guys headed out to check the area and see if they could find any of the ones that tried to get away. The two smaller groups, mine and another, split up the prisoners - _feels weird to call them that_ \- and headed back to camp. They were gonna send them off after we got there. No one said a word about Quentin Carlyle. We headed back to camp, each group taking a different route to avoid getting ambushed.

Some of the guys, namely the Scarecrows, kept their guns locked on our six prisoners pretty much the entire time, like they thought half of a dozen scrawny half-men who probably barely knew how to use their guns would overtake all twenty of us. But, I guess battle makes everyone a little crazy. Maybe _they_ just get trigger-crazy. 

The journey started off quietly and the Germans kept a good pace and gave the Scarecrows no reason to shoot them, and we continued in silence. I, along with one of my bunk mates, Freddie Granger, were the leaders of our little convoy, and the Germans stayed near the front with us. One of them, a little short, fat fellow named Franz, who had hair darker than pitch that was receding from his face like it was the plague, came to the very front to walk with Freddie and me. A couple of the guys in the middle yelled at him to get back and waved their guns uselessly at him, but we made them leave him alone. He was the only one out of them who seemed to speak English very well.

"We all think this war is  _lächerlich_ ," he said with a heavy German accent. I later found out from one of the translators that  _lächerlich_ means ridiculous. "We are only fighting to protect our families from the  _Fuehrer_ and his wrath." Franz told us about his mother and father, who recently died in the war which caused him to join, and his five sisters. 

"They are always being courted by men," he shared with me and Freddie quietly. "Elsie, that would be the youngest one who is just now fifteen, has been asked for her hand in marriage  _three_ times.  _Von Gott!_ I do not know how my mother keeps track of them all without a man there with her. Anne, who is the oldest, and Liesel, who is just below her, just got married at Christmas. It was a shame I had to miss the wedding."

Franz was, as you would say Steve, a character in every right. He told us about his life as a boy and about Gretel, the girl who lived down the street and whom he planned on marrying when the war was over. He even got some of the other ones to talk with us, even though we were separated by languages.

Freddie ended up telling them about the girl he had back home in Louisiana named Sue. I've never quite seen a guy light up when talking about a girl before like he did. He showed us a picture of her and told us about how they plan to have a spring wedding when he gets back. Then, they asked me about the girl I had waiting for me.

Instead, I told them about you. About your knack for sticking up for the little guy, even though you  _are_ the little guy. How you never fail to get in a fight and always "have the guy on the ropes" when I come in and save your ass. I damn near told them about your mom and how you used to put newspaper in your shoes and those two weeks I spent teaching you how to box. Thankfully, we arrived at camp before I had time to embarrass myself completely.

Just before this big guy, Wilson, was going to take them to the Captain's quarters, Franz came to say goodbye to me.

"Friend," he said, "I will probably never see you again. But I want you to know I appreciate your kindness." I now realize that most other soldiers wouldn't have been anywhere near as kind as Freddie and I were. "As for your friend, tell him to never stop fighting for the little guy. Every once in a great while the world needs a little guy to stand up to that big one."

So there you have it. Never stop being you.

Steve, I miss you. I don't know how else to say it for you to understand any more completely. My life, this life here in Europe, is a shell of what it could be. While I enjoy hanging with Freddie, Freddie will never be you. I would never tell the other guys this, but sometimes I feel more like a dead guy than Quentin Carlyle. I live for your letters, and spend more time writing than I probably should. However, none of the other guys say anything because they spend most of their time writing too.

They all tell me that I should sign my letters as  _Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes._  Maybe one day I will, but for now I will stay Bucky. 

Also, I'm sending back Emmy Dents' picture. She's too pretty and I would hate to have to burn it one day to start a fire. Tell her I said thank you.

Yours,

Bucky.

P.S. Attached is a letter that Freddie insisted on writing you and insisted I didn't read. I apologize in advance for anything he put in there.

\---

Dear Mr. Steve Rogers,

Hello. My name is Fredrick Z. Granger. I've asked your friend James - sorry,  _Bucky_ \- to include this letter with his. I know we aren't acquainted, but I have a favor to ask.

My fiancee, Sue, recently sent me a letter containing very important news. News that her father was not particularly pleased about. He has banished her from his home and she doesn't know what to do. If I sent you the money, would find her proper housing and a doctor to go to until the baby comes? She has no where else to turn to.

Normally, I would never make this request to a stranger, but after Bucky has spoken so highly of you, talked on and on about what a decent person you are and how you always want to help those who cannot help themselves. You are the person Bucky speaks of more than any other person. When I told him about Sue and the baby, he suggested I contact you.

Bucky misses you dearly and, apart from the reason previously stated, I wrote this letter to tell you just how lonely. He and I have bonded well and quickly after our short time together but I fear that, despite a large group of men who are eager to be friends with him, he may fall into a place he cannot pull himself out of. I tell you this because I know you would be concerned and I know that he would not tell you otherwise.

If I didn't know better, I would think your friend was in love with you.

I will do what I can to heal his hurt, but you must do the same. War is a dangerous place to be alone and broken. I am sure he will feel better within a few weeks, but I have seen lesser men fall into danger quickly with this mind sickness. I know that you can help your friend more than any other could.

Thank you for your reading of this letter and please respond as quickly as you can.

Much obliged,

Fredrick Zachary Granger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spelling of Fuehrer here is correct because it is only spelled without the 'e' when the umlaut is not available.


End file.
